In an age of explosives, we feel less
for the old war dead, now that it
happens around us, and faster. We are
inside, part of the circle, handing on
the plastic to the next person, coddling
the fuse before it is seated, as prideful to be
part of the concussive flaming to come as once
we felt enlarged by good deeds. That cell phone ring
cutting the baby’s cry and the shrieks in the street
may be the signal to set the timer. Listen in. For it is
now, always now, at the decisive moment.
What music, food or fashion accompanies
this sleazy assault that tries to employ art
to devour the dead? The endless list of names
etches within us the splayed limbs, the grief,
the anger and ideals that mount at the edge
a data bank for cheap thrills, art apart.